


Belles and Whistles

by haku23



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haku23/pseuds/haku23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is your run of the mill mob boss, making money however he can with little in the way of a love life until he meets Tony. Who happens to be a stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“I don't give a shit who told you what, I want the merchandise packed up and ready to go by tomorrow morning,” Steve growls into the phone because he loves this business, he does, but sometimes the people in it are fucking idiots. He snaps his cellphone closed, effectively ending the call as Clint Barton strolls in.

Barton is a few inches shorter than Steve and he's muscular enough to get most jobs done-his dark blond hair is cropped close enough that it's tidy though long enough to still stick up in the morning if it's not brushed. Steve has seen him enough mornings, running late for a meeting with a contact, with his hair all over the place to know. He smirks at Steve, “getting some work done, Cap?”

“Get rid of the middleman for the coke,” he grumbles, flips open the thin black notebook containing the names and information of all of his Associates, Acquaintances, and Friends, in his lap then picks up the blue lacquered fountain pen from his desk. He finds the name of the guy he'd been talking to on the phone and crosses it out, closes the notebook again before setting it beside the stack of papers next to his rotary phone.

“Sure, Cap.”

“Don't call me that,” Steve leans forward in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to loosen the pressure between his eyes. The doctor had said he'd need glasses eventually but Erskine is full of shit until such a time that Steve can't see his hand in front of his face. “What do you want?”

Barton flops in the chair on the other side of Steve's desk, “sure, Boss. You look stressed.”

“What's your point?”

“Strip club, come on. Nat said she's got some new merchandise in that you're gonna like,” he waggles his eyebrows like a 13 year old boy which he so closely resembles in attitude.

“I don't have the time, Barton. Take care of Ruiz, I'm tired of him.”

“I'm taking care of Ruiz.”

Steve sighs, “you're still here.”

“Dude, all I'm saying is you need to relax. Watch some girls bend into impossible positions, get a lap dance.”

“I'm not getting a lap dance.”

Strippers are part of their livelihood sure, but Steve tries not to shit where he's eats and he isn't up for putting in even the minimal amount effort for a quick fuck even from a willing working girl. They're so loud, over the top, and Steve has enough of that in his work. Not to mention that he has to pay for it and Steve hadn't gotten into this business to spend all of his hard earned money on someone who would pretend to like him for the right price.

“We can still go to the strip club though, right? I mean it, I got Ruiz, everything is under control, Boss.”

“Fine.”

He doesn't know why he says it but he doesn't like going back on his word if he can help it and maybe a few drinks will help ease the tension in his neck and shoulders that's been building all week. First the botched hit on the cop that'd been riding their asses all month, then Darcy had gone on leave for school foisting all of the paperwork she'd been this close to finishing I promise! Onto his desk, and now Ruiz's fuck up. The son of a bitch had been taking some off the top for himself on top of it all, Steve had had plans to get rid of him in a few weeks anyway however it's just one more god damn thing on his plate that should have never been there.

The club Natasha-a pretty red head who deserves better but doesn't accept any help-runs is in the part of town nice boys don't go. It's a good thing then that Steve is not a nice boy. He lets Clint drive because he needs time to think about how he's going to handle Hammer's people encroaching on their territory with their promises of protection from Steve's gang to those who aren't smart enough to take Steve's offers. It doesn't matter how many times he tells the shop owners that Hammer is full of shit, they're taken in by his flashy words and suits and eventually ally with him. Steve doesn't try to “convince” them to come back to his side because Hammer is about as effective at preventing the lower level street gangs from destroying storefronts and the like as a condom with a hole in it is at preventing pregnancy. They'll come back eventually and they'll pay more for Steve's protection, sure, but they'll actually know they're safe, too.

When they pull up to Belles and Whistles-Steve still thinks it's a stupid name however Clint howls every time he sees it and so he lets them keep it-and Clint is done laughing they head inside the building with the darkened windows.

The interior is nicer than the neighbourhood would make a person expect-the stage is well lit and the decor is about as classy as a strip club can get with rich colours and seating comfortable enough that Steve lets his head drop onto the of the couch. It's not busy yet, just opened half an hour ago, so he and Barton are among the three or four patrons inside the club. Other than them there's the dancers and Natasha in a tight black number patrolling the floor while Clint is trying his luck with yet again in spite of Steve's rule against dating within the Family.

He can very nearly forget he's in a strip club if he closes his ears to the stupid music playing from the speakers and after awhile Clint flings himself down beside him, “brought you a drink.”

“Thank you,” he sits up to take the drink then slams it back in one gulp despite the burn, “let's see the new ones.”

Clint lets out a whoop, “knew you'd come around! 'Tasha! Bring out the new ones!”

The first is a brunette woman that reminds Steve too much of another girl he'd gotten out of the business but she can move so he nods his approval. The next two are a pair of twins who aren't afraid to get handsy with one another and he nods-that kind of shit makes money for some reason. The last is a brunet, not thin but not built either. His facial hair is groomed into a van dyke and he wears a smirk that he levels at Steve before going to work on the pole. He knows how to work it, knows what people want to see, and when he smiles at Steve again Steve licks his lips, nods.

“You likin' the angle of his dangle, Cap?”

“Don't call me that,” he says immediately.

“You should get a private dance from him.” 

“Not this time,” Steve murmurs as the man on stage saunters off of it. He motions for another drink and Clint jogs off to get it. He downs that in one go too then gets to his feet, “we're going.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Barton brings him Ruiz's finger-the one he'd always worn that obnoxiously large ring on so there's no mistaking it-and a cup of coffee. By now he should know how Steve likes it but it's still got too much god damn sugar in it. Steve hasn't taken sugar in his coffee since his mother's death-she'd always given him exactly one spoonful(any more and it'd rot his teeth)when she'd started letting him drink the stuff and Steve can't get the amount right somehow because it always tastes too sweet now. He drinks it anyway. Waste not, want not. 

“He was expecting me. Someone must've tipped him off,”Clint waves off his look of concern, “you worry too much, Cap.”

“Keep this under wraps. If someone was working with him I don't want them waiting for you.”

“You got it, Boss,” he doesn't sit on the bed-Steve is protective of his springs and Barton would make all sorts of lewd jokes about being in his bed besides that-but hovers until Steve puts on something more than an undershirt on. 

“What?” 

“We lost another one to Hammer. Bakery down on Weest 42nd.”

“They'll be back,” he reaches for his cellphone that's still charging on the bedside table. Shit. They'd made damn good bread. 

“We can't just rely on faith to get us through, Cap.”

“I'm not extorting them, Barton. If they want to go with Hammer then let them,” he checks his messages, finding a few from Darcy and one from Carol. 

“Technically-”

“I know. Can it.”

“I'll ask Phil if he's got anyone in mind to replace Ruiz,” Clint smirks a little and Steve doesn't pretend to understand what's going on with he and Phil Coulson but he's an Associate so he trusts him. Has to or else nothing would ever get done. 

“Fine. Set up a meeting with Fury, maybe we can get him to start talking some sense.”

Fury is one of a few cops Steve has in his pocket however with the recent crackdown on organized crime he's been proving to be more of a nuisance than anything else. He's the chief of police, sure, doesn't mean he can keep his superiors in the dark forever and said superiors have started shining lights on shadows they should've left well enough alone. Steve will have to get rid of him eventually however that kind of a killing is high profile, too high profile for right now. He'll give it a few months,re-evaluate Fury's usefulness, and make a decision then. 

“Maybe I should go instead, Boss.”

“I'm going, Barton, and I hear anymore out of you about it you ain't gonna like what happens,” Steve snaps, feels a twinge of guilt because he tries not to be that kind of guy. His mother'd raised him better than that but she'd also raised him better than all of this so he can't feel too bad about it. Men are easy-communicate in aggression and ten years have left Steve well versed in that at least, “talk to Coulson.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Clint goes and Steve runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. This shit is getting to him more than he'd like. No time for thinking too hard on it now, though, he'll be seeing Fury later today and he's got to give the others their orders regarding the casino opening up on the Upper West Side. The owner had been cooperative in exchange for money to keep construction going however now that opening night is less than a week away he's stopped answering any communications. He'll get Sam to head over there, get their promise of their continued alliance or Sam will leave a maimed corpse in the front lobby. Could go either way at this point. 

Carol is handling the collection of protection money and her text says it's going well except for how few people she has to visit now. They've still got at least fifty people in their racket but the number's been declining since last summer when Hammer had come on the scene. He's new money to the mob world yet he's doing well for himself. Steve still has a stranglehold on most of the dealers who don't peddle utter crap however he isn't naive enough to think that it will be forever. Ruiz's fuck up is a symptom of more change to come. Steve isn't a fan of change. 

Other than donating some money to charity-he tries not to use blood money but it happens-Steve paces the length of his apartment until 1pm. Fury is usually available for lunch and the one eyed bastard is going to pay for bungling the reassignment of that nosey cop that's been sticking his nose into Steve's business that had led to the fuck up with offing him. 

They meet at a place under Steve's protection. A mom and pop deli that's been around since Steve had been in diapers-the kind of mom and pop that know better than to try to renege on deals. The kind that know when they've got a good thing going for them and don't get too big for their britches just because the paper'd called them one of the best places to eat in Manhattan. 

The exterior belies the newly updated interior with a few sets of chairs and tables with just the right amount of wear and tear to be considered homey instead of trashy and their recently purchased, still sparkling clean showcase. When he steps inside he's hit with the familiar scent of his mother's kitchen on Sunday afternoons after church. 

There's no missing Fury even dressed down because he's the only person in the place that doesn't look like he hasn't seen the sun in about fifty years. He's also only got one eye but in Steve's business that isn't the first thing a guy notices about another. He's got a sandwich in front of him at the table nearest to the corner and Steve takes a minute to order a pulled pork one for himself before striding over. 

“Chief.”

“Rogers.”

“How have you been?” he asks, lifts his sandwich to his mouth and takes a bite. Heavenly. 

“You take the good, you take the bad.”

Steve smiles, “how is Andrews?”

“He'll live.”

“So I've heard.”

They're quiet for awhile, long enough for them both to finish their food until Fury wipes his mouth with his napkin, “if you're going to kill me you may as well do it.”

“They just renovated.”

“Cut the caring act, Captain, we all know who paid for it,” Fury's eye narrows and his mouth is turned down in a frown as usual. 

“They invested in some lucrative stocks. It turned out well for them.”

“Paid in cash, I'm guessing.” 

Steve smiles again, “to an independent contractor. An Associate of mine. People these days are too reliant on plastic to get them through a crisis.”

“And you keep your money under your mattress.”

“Every man, woman, and child has a bank account, Nick. In my day we didn't trust banks. Didn't trust them to get the job done,” he folds his hands in front of him, stares directly at the man in front of him, “but that's not how it is now, is it?”

“Back then there was a lot fewer eyes in the sky. Easy to fuck it up without anyone seeing.”

“They still pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, didn't they? Made sure to get the job done right. People gave them another chance-it worked out.”

Fury leans back in his chair, “but some people still don't trust them.”

“And those people are right not to,” Steve pushes back his chair, gets to his feet, “nice seeing you, Nick. Take care of yourself.”

~~**~~

It's a relief when he's home. The innuendos, the metaphors have never been his strong suit but people aren't very responsive to their threats being painted for them. It's necessary anyway-people these days don't know how to keep out of other people's business either. Doesn't mean he likes talking in half truths anyway. He'd much rather just tell a guy straight up if he's planning on killing him if he fucks up again however the day he can do that is the day that the cops have him in chains. And he's hungry again.

He flicks on the TV on his way to the kitchen so he can listen to the news while he cooks up something to satiate his hunger. It's mostly background noise-three car pileup on the freeway, some CEO gone bankrupt, kitten saved from a tree-but it still helps settle his mind slightly more. Clint phones him to make sure he'd gotten back from the meeting without being arrested or killed and tells him Coulson has a guy in mind for their next trafficking gig. A bottle of wine-good wine, not the crap Clint drinks-and a plate of pasta and he's set for the rest of the day provided he doesn't get called out anywhere else. 

And by the time his meal is finished he should be satisfied. But he isn't. His mind keeps returning to the club, to that brunet that could dance better than most of the girls there. It's 9pm by the time he finally ends up giving in and going. 

~~**~~

When he heads inside the club Natasha spots him right away and weaves through the furniture until she reaches him at the bar. She's wearing a red dress this time, low cut in the front and the hemline is higher than Steve would preferably like to see on anyone who isn't a stripper or whore but he isn't about to tell her that. Her red lips twist up into a knowing smirk, “back to sample the new merchandise, Boss?” 

“How's business?”

“Good. If there's one thing we can count on it's the citizens of New York's charity towards women who get their rocks off. But you're not here for business,” the bartender-a hulking black guy with a tattoo of a black rose-passes her a drink and she slides it down the bar to Steve instead. 

“Not entirely.”

“You liked the brunet. He's on in ten if you want to wait,” she takes the second drink given to her and sips it, leaving an imprint of her lips on the rim. 

He hums in agreement around his whiskey on the rocks then sets it down with a barely audible thunk, “Hammer's guys been around here lately?”

“Always are,” she taps a finger against her glass, “I sent them packing.”

“Be careful, Natasha. Hammer isn't a guy to screw with.” 

“Believe me, no one's getting screwed,” then, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” his fingertips brush her wrist but she doesn't smile at him like she used to, “just be safe.”

The glass scrapes along the bar top before Natasha hops off of her stool with a quiet click of her heels, “I'll send him to the VIP room after his dance if you want.”

“Yeah.”

“Try not to promise you'll rescue him,” she smiles for real this time rather than flashing that infuriating smirk and heads for the door marked Employees Only. 

When the man of the hour comes out on stage he's wearing a suit. Like a business suit and Steve very firmly remains seated at the bar. Give people an inch and they take a mile, especially if they think you like them. Within a minute of his stepping onto the lit stage the dancer has his jacket off, cups himself loosely over his pants before his belt comes off too. His hips are moving in a way that says he's done this many, many times in the past however he lacks the look that some of the girls get after they've had men pawing at them every chance they get for awhile so this must be his first time working at a club but not his first time on the pole. He's athletic too. When his tie and dress shirt come off(the tie is tossed into the front row where a gaggle of women shriek in delight over it) it's not hard to miss his muscular arms and tight stomach and Steve thinks he's looking at him as he pulls his pants off in spite of still wearing shoes. His dick is barely being held back by a red silk thong as his body rolls against the pole once, twice, three times before he bends over with his bare ass facing the audience to untie his shoes. All at once Steve wants to run his hands over him, see what it feels like to make him shudder and moan. He isn't a teenager anymore but he's hard in his pants just thinking about it. He wouldn't have to be careful. Not like with those girls that scream too loud and call him sweet. His eyes follow the rest of the routine as if he's a cobra being lulled into calmness by the beat of the music until it stops. 

Steve heads for the VIP room upstairs that he knows is always designated his without a second thought. He waits all of fifteen minutes for the dancer to come up to his room, the sheen of sweat has been rinsed off and his hair is still damp and smells of shampoo. He's wearing only the thong from the stage and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the bottom.

The corner of his mouth tips up when he sees that it's Steve sitting on the red sofa, “I'd ask if you come here often but you're the Boss.”

“I don't,” Steve keeps his voice light, despite not having to. He could probably do whatever the hell he wanted to to this guy and no one would say shit but only cowards hit someone who can't hit back and Steve is no coward. “Drink?”

“Sure,” he glides over to Steve's seat, fingers curling around the glass he's offered, “should I call you Boss or is that weird? It's kind of weird if you're going to you know, fuck me if I just call you Boss.”

“My name is Steve.”

There's a spark of recognition in his brown eyes, “Steve Rogers, right, I saw you on TV for that...”

“Sit down.”

“So what can I do for you, Steve?” the dancer edges closer to him, pulls his feet up onto the sofa with him, and puts his arm not holding his drink loosely around his shoulders, “You're not just here for a dance but I am good at that, I saw you watching and you strike me as the kind of guy who knows quality.”

“Can I fuck you?”

“You're asking? You're the Boss, Steve, you can do whatever the hell you want to me and no one would say shit,” he downs his drink and his tongue flicks across his lips, “but yeah, you can fuck me.”

Steve isn't into denying himself. Not anymore, and so he pulls him onto his lap until he's straddling Steve's lap, “what's your name?”

“Does it matter?” the other man is still smiling. It's just on the right side of being smug without being too annoying and he wants to kiss it away until all he can say is Steve's name. The impulse would have made him blush a few years ago but not anymore. He's not Steve Rogers anymore, not really. He doubts even his own mother would recognize him now.

“I like to know.”

“Are you going to promise to free me from my terrible lifestyle, Boss?” he leans in to press his lips to Steve's ear and his hips start moving like they had during his performance, a slow and rhythmic motion that has Steve hardening immediately.

“No,” he says back, digs his fingers into the hips under his hands until he's certain they'll leave bruises, “you like doing this.”

“You caught me,” the dancer's hands skim down Steve's chest for a brief second before settling on his shoulders, “do you want me to dance too or is this just about the sex?”

Steve doesn't answer right away, he's too busy being enthralled by the line of the man's hipbone, how his abs bunch when he gyrates his hips, “dance.”

“Sure.” 

There's nothing but the bleed of the music from downstairs for him to move to but it doesn't seem to bother the other man-he adapts quickly even though he does give a brief roll of the eyes, “I hate this song.”

Steve doesn't even register the music after a few moments, not when there's a half naked man doing things on the pole that the other dancers here haven't even tried. He waves him over when his fingers itch to touch again more than he can handle and the dancer is still clothed but it doesn't matter. His hands find their way back to his hips anyway, “don't look like the type to do this for a living.”

“You already said it, Steve, I like doing this,” he doesn't settle into Steve's lap like before and Steve has received more than a few lap dances courtesy of Clint's wallet to know that's the plan, “if I keep getting customers like you I won't ever want to leave.”

“Hm.”

“You're not like the others,” he says and his breath is on Steve's neck, warming and cooling it for a few moments before he laps at the pulse point there, “and I don't just say that to anyone.”

“Sure you don't,” Steve murmurs, squeezes his ass like it's a reprimand and the other man just laughs.

“Okay, so maybe I do. A guy's gotta eat.”

It's those kinds of things that stick with him. Self-deprecating statements that hide a larger problem and he's heard them too often from his mother to let them slide. He's not going to save him from this. But he can try. He makes a noise of assent and the dancer starts dancing in earnest, pulling Steve's hands from his behind and gives the command not to touch. Of course unless he's looking to sleep with them he doesn't touch-it's against the rules and Steve likes to think of himself as a law abiding citizen when it suits him. He obediently lets his hands rest beside his thighs, fingertips half an inch away from the bare legs straddling him. 

“Big hands. You know what they say...”

Steve gives him a look and he just laughs again. 

“Not your kind of talk, huh? Yeah, I bet you're old fashioned,” he arches against Steve's chest, drives his hips down until all Steve can feel is a pleasant buzz, “open doors for women, pull out their chair.”

“It's polite,” he manages to get out. He feels drunk off this and he hates to lose control but it's been awhile since he has. Not since Natasha. She'd driven him crazy and he'd let her. 

“That's why you're not with one of the girls, isn't it?” another kiss to Steve's neck, “you don't have to be polite to me. You can be as rough as you want, that's why you chose me.”

Steve wonders how he'd figured it out so quickly, grabs his legs in spite of the rule in place, “that a problem?”

“No. I like it rough,” he says as if that's something people say to each other every day in normal conversation. It sends a jolt to Steve's groin and he manoeuvres them so that he's on top, the dancer's back pressed into the cushions of the couch. His thong matches and Steve doesn't know why he notices that. 

He fucks him with his face pressed into the couch, ass in the air, and when he's done he presses a wad of bills he doesn't bother counting into the hand that isn't dangling off the side of the couch. 

“Get something to eat,” he says while he's zipping his pants back up, pushing his hand back into place. 

“Sure, handsome,” the brunet replies from where he's lying like a boneless mass on the couch. 

Steve tells himself he's not going to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I admit I enjoyed writing the part with Fury a little too much lol. I'm not good at writing explicit porn and terrible porn just ruins things so if you're waiting for that type of thing then well...you may be out of luck. I'll do my best to make future scenes hotter but I make no promises! :'D


End file.
